


Lay All Your Love On Me

by clocksmonsta



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Destruction, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Warrior of Light and the Mysterious Backstory, oh haurchefant we're really in it this time, time to put the D in Dysfunctional
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-01-30 21:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clocksmonsta/pseuds/clocksmonsta
Summary: The Warrior of Darkness looks to The Crystal Exarch and sees everything he used to love in Haurchefant Greystone: a man kind, loyal, and true, with a smile brighter than any Flood. He looks to him and feels--even more than a long-dead hope of being loved and understood--bottomless terror that history will repeat. That he will open his heart for it to only be proven better shut, that anyone he dares to love will ultimately sacrifice themselves for him and leave him to survive the guilt alone.The Warrior of Darkness looks to Emet-Selch and sees a man who cannot see him in turn. He is a man who wills the Scions into an unwanted partnership based solely on his interest in a fragment's whole. He is a villain obsessed with his past, who despises all humanity, commits atrocity after atrocity, and the Warrior of Darkness knows with all certainty that he will never regret felling the Ascian when he finally plays his true hand.He doesn't love him and he won't miss him. That ironically makes Emet-Selch an easier target for the feelings the Exarch carelessly reawakens than the Exarch himself.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

“To think they cover every limb… You are ever the mystery, Warrior of Light.”

Feather-light caresses trace the scars along Vala’s arm. The touch tingles even through the encroaching haze of sleep, and his heavy eyelids flutter open in time to watch as Haurchefant leans in to press a chaste kiss against a large knot of pale, swirling marks. Their eyes catch—sea meeting sky—and the knight repeats the process, his lips twisting into a grin and pressing down on Vala’s shoulder where the scars continue their path.

Vala simply returns the smirk and wriggles himself in closer, pressing his chest against the other’s now that _someone_ decided to lower their quilted blanket. Flushed skin warms his own in this midnight chill, and he winds his arms around Haurchefant’s neck, lays a kiss upon his jaw, and answers nothing. That was an observation, after all, not a question—and so long as it wasn’t a _question_...

But the observation continues, damn the man’s curiosity. Haurchefant lays his chin on Vala’s shoulder and follows the paint-splattered scars decorating his back with one finger. He holds him through the instinctual shiver, a grounding heat. “I have bore witness to an inordinate amount of injury during the span of my career; felt, inflicted, and bystander all. It has been said that a knight without scars is a knight without honor.”

“Or your brother,” Vala distracts, running his fingertips along the hair at the base of his lover’s neck. His bait is ignored, unfortunately, though Haurchefant's chest jumps with a snort as he lamely knocks a hand against the back of Vala's head. It’s a poor defense of Atoirel and Emmanellain, but that Haurchefant even bothers with the act of playing offended after all he's said of his elder brother’s estrangement (and younger brother’s…’himselfness’) speaks volumes of his character.

“But for all I have seen," he continues, "your own scars remain an utter enigma to me. A glove without a mate, if you will, and I have yet to find its likeness anywhere.” Huddled together as they are, Vala cannot see Haurchefant’s face or vice versa. But he must have tensed, shown some little sign of discomfort, because Haurchefant’s lone finger is quickly joined by the rest. They press into his skin and the thin muscle underneath, kneading any knots they find in soothing supplication. “Pray do not mistake my fascination for irreverence! Never in my dreams would I seek to unease a man so deserving of every calm he is supplied! I…simply noted you are unbothered by their presence and find myself pondering their origin when ‘ere I reflect upon our,” he pauses and, when he resumes, drops his tone comically low. Vala doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s waggling his eyebrows, “_sword training..._”

...It’s a horrible euphemism, but powerfully disarming in its goofiness. Vala chuckles despite himself, faintly, and _feels_ Haurchefant beaming in pride that his salacious joke has landed. _‘Sword training’_... He can already imagine Thancred swooping into Camp Dragonhead to assail the garison leader with demand for stories and pints of ale, should he ever hear of it. Were Vala to tell him. Or anyone.

Of course, it’s impolite to speak of such ‘training' in company—good or otherwise—being that it started at midnight and ended at the stroke of...well. Each other. Hardly something that needs to get out so soon after House Fortemps made wards of the Scions. The political implication that a bastard successfully begged his high-borne father to house the friends of his sickly, male, Duskwight lover is…

Vala shifts back just enough to rest his cheek against Haurchefant’s toned chest and peers at him with the most incredulous expression he can manage over his actual amusement, as if to ask_ ‘you find yourself “pondering” often?’_

Haurchefant understands. “A man must be allowed his indulgences in the face of grueling banality! And it just so happens I fancy them—and you—greatly,” he pouts, clearly thinking on unfinished paperwork and all (or who) he’d rather be doing instead. Soon, however, he's back to tracing scars and theorizing to himself. Vala sighs, but otherwise has no deflection that will also prevent him from exposing something better hidden, so he flops where he is, defeated. “...A blade would be hard-pressed to carve such thick lines while also maintaining such charming swirls, and acids are far too imperfect for such precise, mirroring patterns… I would hazard to guess it magic, but for them to span across every ilm in a singular piece? Oh, the tale they must tell…!” 

“...”

Haurchefant nudges his lover's foot with his own under the covers, canting his head with growing concern. Vala cannot blame him, of course - for all their chatter of ‘glory and adventure,’ it’s possibly the first time the man’s enthusiasm has been set against a wall. “...are you yet afraid to confide in me, my friend?”

But Vala also cannot respond. He averts his eyes, letting the silence be his answer. In this one, singular thing he cannot indulge, and that he is unable to lay all of himself bare for a man he trusts with everything else pains him more than anything.

“Their story is unspeakable, then…" Vala’s thin body is raised and lowered with Haurchefant’s troubled sigh. “Forgive me, _mon ciel étoilé_. Loathe am I to crease that handsome brow with the weight of thoughts best left forgotten. It is clear I have overstepped your boundaries, and you have my sincerest apologies, Vala. It is not my place to bid a hero share his troubles unwillingly.” 

...to speak of boundaries is expected and genuinely appreciated, but it’s the last part that holds Vala’s attention. _‘Not my place to bid a hero share...’?_ What an oddly impersonal thing to say to a man who’s spent the last several weeks teleporting into his bedchambers for company. With the way their relationship has developed and all that they have shared, focusing on Vala’s unfortunate title as ‘Eorzea’s Most Put-Upon Errand Boy’ sounds...

_Oh._

It is a rare, unhappy sight to see the cracks in Haurchefant’s well-built armor. His smile thins, and in his eyes Vala can see memories of loneliness and a constant struggle for relevance, for a place in a society content to avoid acknowledging him. It’s a life Vala knows all too well himself, and of course the man would assume this too, this childish refusal to communicate, is another small rejection. That he would see Vala’s silent avoidance of his own past as a silent confirmation that what they had wasn’t truly personal, just some fun distraction before the next adventure. His heart sinks and he pulls his hands to the knight’s face, desperate to clear the misunderstanding. He caresses Haurchefant’s cheek with one thumb and traces the point of his ear with the other. The gestures are simple, but speak of comfort, of intent. _‘I love you,’_ they say. _‘I am here for you. I will never leave you.' _

But silence is what set the doubt in, isn’t it? "...pray never doubt your place beside me, _mon rayon de soleil_. It is only that… I am simply…" Vala swallows, searching, ever unused to being listened to, "I am simply not _ready_, to share that story. But I shall be, one day," he smiles, small and warm and apologetic, "for I love you."

Somewhere, Vala is sure, Tataru has sensed that he’s verbally conveyed an emotion and is demanding wine for celebration.

It is clearly enough for Haurchefant too, for he brightens, his fears allayed. His next jostling sigh comes with a grateful, relieved grin and Vala realizes how dull the world grows without Haurchefant's joy to give it color. “And I, you,” he whispers, brushing messy strands of bluish-silver from Vala’s face. “Enough of the past, then. Towards the future shall we ever strive—and what a future awaits, with you at the helm! You, a man who offers hope with his very presence. Who weaves his spells as beautifully as his poetry.” He leaves a kiss then, upon his brow. “My inspiration…” Another, to his cheek. “With you at our side, this war is as good as won. All of Ishgard will sing your name and I shall lead the chorus as the loudest of them all!”

_Hydaelyn save me. I do not deserve this man... _

Vala melts, drawing circles into Haurchefant's chest with a lazy finger and a bashful smile. “You always have been.” It’s meant in admiration and it’s in admiration that Haurchefant clearly takes it. His eyes shine with that tell-tale warmth that never completely fades, that brightens upon each compliment and word of praise...but the man still feigns offense. He draws a hand to his chest in an exaggerated gasp, scandalized, and Vala laughs when he’s pitched off the knight’s body and onto his back.

“Ohoho! So unappreciative of my enthusiasm! How you wound me!" He has to raise his voice over Vala's laughter, rolling atop him and nudging one knee between Vala's own. "I should be honored, then, to learn from the master of silence! I _beg_ of you, kind tutor: deny your eager pupil yet again the pleasure of hearing his name sung from those luscious lips, that he might glean inspiration from your…" he leans in, voice lowered once again into something more silly than seductive, "_pianissimo_.”

It earns Haurchefant another laugh and a slap to the chest. “I am already nude in your bed! You needn’t the terrible come-ons.”

“Mmm, passing strange…! You’ve never _before_ claimed anything terrible about my c—”

Vala clasps his palm over Haurchefant’s incorrigible mouth so quickly it is an insult he refuses to actually pick up a sword. “_Thaliak preserve me_, I shall yet die alone,” he bemoans, dramatically, over the knight’s muffled cackling. “Send my apologies to your father; he is lovely, but I cannot impose on a man whose son gave me no other choice but to cast him out a window."

Warm, callused fingers coax away his cold hand. He obliges despite his playful threats, unable to truly deny Haurchefant anything less than a single, horrible truth, and he finds nothing to regret in the loving smile it reveals. Haurchefant is shining and beautiful and he laces their fingers together, squeezing the summoner's hand within his own. 

...It's entrancing, to see the difference in their strength with such a small, delicate gesture. Vala has ever been thin. Gaunt. A man with the story of his discardment etched into the hollows of his cheeks, the sallow of his skin, and every exposed rib. Haurchefant has the hands of a knight without peer, of a man who's pushed himself every moment of his life to be a shield for those in need, to be the protector he himself was never afforded. He could easily snap the brittle bones of Vala's fingers without a second thought, yet he holds them between his own as if admiring spun gold. 

It's childish, shameful even for Eorzea's so-called savior, but he finds himself tearing at the sight. At the knowledge he is this lucky, this _blessed_...

Haurchefant places his lips upon Vala's knuckles and peers up at him through snowy lashes. The blue of his eyes in the moonlight matches the shine of Allag's Crystal Tower and Vala is lost, hypnotized. “You shall _never_ be alone, _mon ciel étoilé_…”

“I shall never bid you leave, _mon rayon de soleil_…”

They kiss, limbs like vines entwining around one another. It’s gentle and sweet and Vala’s chest burns with a fire that rages through his soul as their bodies reclaim each other. One day, he swears to himself, he’ll tell Haurchefant about his scars. He’ll tell him the truth, about Albion. About himself, and the lie he’s been living. He’ll tell him when this is over, entrust in him this burden, because he knows Haurchefant would do anything to help him shoulder it. Vala would do anything to help Haurchefant shoulder his own.

Mayhap they were born unwanted. Cursed forever with the scars of excision, two pieces thrown away from greater puzzles. But their edges interlock and together they fit into their own salvaged picture. Together they are loved, accepted, cherished. _Acknowledged_. Together they are whole, safely anchored in an unyielding current that would have them washed apart and drowned. Vala drags his nails through Haurchefant’s hair, whispers to him praises and vows of devotion, and Haurchefant kisses like he’s been given the world.

.

  
.

  
.

  
.

  
.

  
.

  
.

“—we retreat, then—…”

This isn’t happening. 

This isn’t real. 

Only a dream. A miserable dream. 

He’ll awaken again to find himself warm and held and protected and loved and this nightmare will fade over morning breakfast and stolen kisses. It’s fading already, blessed as he is, his vision blurring and ears ringing. They’ll go about their day with Nidhogg slain and Ishgard safe—and who within the city walls would deny the savior of their home and the man who brought him there if they desired to hide their blossoming romance no longer? They are owed that much. _Deserved_ that much.

“—enough time to regroup and inform the others. We must…Fury forgive, we must inform Count Edm—…”

They’ll go on leave to someplace warmer—Gridania, perhaps. Haurchefant might enjoy seeing the Golden Saucer if not for the Ul'Dahn heat and Vala is ever cautious entering Thanalan regardless of current events. Limsa smells too of the sea and is home to too many memories. Gridania is mild, but beautiful, though he’ll have to admit to not hailing from there despite appearances. He’ll have to admit to many a thing even if fear floods his very being that the man he’s come to trust, to love, will not understand his story or his—his _existence_. But he must believe that Haurchefant will accept him knowing who—what—he really is the same way he accepts him now. He must have faith. They have plans. He must… 

He must…

“Vala...? Vala, I— ...Please, there are no words I could say to ease your heart, I know...”

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

_ **He won’t let this happen.** _

“...Master Blake?”

He’s doubled-over a corpse yet to lose its warmth, one hand clutching the man’s face to his own and the other holding a large, blue crystal in a desperate grip. The two of them shake with Vala’s rattling sobs and even that emotional release does little to abate the cold seeping in. He can’t breathe for the air leaving him in quickened heaves. He can’t breathe at all. His lungs are burning. He’s drowning. Can only weep and press his now-glowing crystal, _Hydaelyn’s_ crystal, her gift, her curse, to Haurchefant’s stilled heart and...

“Vala?!”

“Twelve forfend, boy! _What are you doing?!_”

And beg.

Quiet words spill from his lips, unbidden by promise or reason. They are incoherent to the ears of his Elezen compatriots, the Xaelan clumsy on his own Elezen tongue, and ominous in their intention, but his mother’s prayers has ever had that affect in Ishgard. Let them be frightened. He cannot afford to care what they think, not right now.

Has he not done everything you wanted of him, Hydaelyn? Has he not served loyally? Slaved? _Sacrificed_?! Has he not given enough of what little of his life there is to give? Has he not done enough to amend the sins of his past self? Can you do _nothing_ for this man?! You saved Albion! You saved what was left—you can yet save Haurchefant, _please, save him— _

“‘Tis useless with a mere crystal, isn’t it?! He couldn’t possibly summon—”

“The man _slays gods_ and you think him unable to bring about one of his own if he willed it?!” Metal-clad hands grip his arm, jerks with strength beyond that of a mortal, but it isn’t strong enough to make him stand. This weight, this will, is heavier. “Vala! Vala, stop this!”

It is not too late. There must still be enough aether, enough to put back together what death would claim for the Lifestream. This world is dark and cold and your only will is to bring the Light to the realm—do not take the man who brings the Light to your champion…!

“Vala, _please_, I share your grief, but this is not what he would want! Vala! _Vala, listen to me!_”

“He will not yield, Ser Aymeric! Estinien, _stop him!_”

“What is it you think I’m trying to do, woman?! _You_ try budging the skeletal bastard if you think it looks so easy!”

What is it that you want...?! His own aether?! His life?! His memories?!! **_Take them!!_ **Rip him asunder again and again and again until there is nothing left, death for life, but do not let this man, the only soul who has made him feel whole, who loves him, this man who looks to him and sees hope instead of a weapon, a man instead of a monster, _do not allow him to die for someone so unworthy of the sacrifice,_ _Mother Hydaelyn, **please don’t take him he is all the light he has—**_

“Oh, _sod this!_”

Something dull and hard collides with the back of his head. The world flashes white with pain, the crystal of light clatters to the ground, and Vala falls first into Haurchefant’s bloodied chest, then into darkness.


	2. See-Through

Sleep is ever hard to come by.

_ ‘Serve, save, slave, slay. _ ’ Tis a pounding refrain a part of his soul has wailed since the days of Ishgard and it has yet to change its tune in the First. Always another fight. Another calamity. Another struggle not his own. Never rest. Never heal. Never stop, for there is always something else on the line. But he is the Bringer of Light, now the Bringer of Shadow, and there is no one else to shoulder the weight. It is his, alone, so onward he does march with two worlds worth of burdens.

_ ‘Serve’ _ , thrums his heart.  _ ‘Save. Slave. Slay.’  _

Yet for every explosive battle he is center of, that only he may fight, it is always those around him torn by the shrapnel. Any sleep he’d managed after the Qitana Reval was quickly undone by the familiar sound of screams and fighting. He awoke to war outside his window, death outside his door. Good men and women slaughtered by sin eaters or put down by their own sobbing brethren, no matter what magicks he desperately cast to protect them. He watched grief overtake the unlucky bastards forced to dole out mercy on the corrupted. Watched strong, capable Lyna crumble under the guilt of failing her comrades as tears strangled her voice.

Watched, yet again, a dying man gaze into his eyes and fail to reach for him.

It was a waste of a trip for Vauthry to fly overhead and decide from the comfort of his airship who held the blame. Carrying it had callused Vala’s hands long ago.

Every part of his body aches to the bone by the time he returns from Lakeland, but sleep remains a stranger. He busies himself instead, giving medicine to the wounded or encouraging Minfilia and Thancred to speak to one another when they will not. Had he practiced conjury further than the paltry amount he had, he might have been less of a hindrance to the chiurgeons—but he hadn’t, and they shoo him away when there is no more medicine to give.

Sleep still does not come.

It’s on the way to the Wandering Stairs for a strong drink that he runs into a man he’d much rather run  _ through _ . He falters mid-step on the stairwell, his left hand itching for his sword but finding only his grimoire - a gesture that Emet-Selch, sat innocently at a balcony-side table and gingerly sipping upon something purple, notices.

“ _ Anxious _ , are we, hero?” He asks the question with the sort of teasing one would spare for an old friend, not an enemy in the wake of a massacre, and the mere sound of his ease in the midst of this mourning only infuriates further. But Emet-Selch cares not about the hatred Vala directs his way. He just stares down at him over the rim of his glass, his head tilted with faint interest.

And he  _ smiles _ .

It’s the damnedest thing, that smile. Ever since Rak’tika Greatwood, Vala has noticed the way Emet-Selch looks at him, especially when he thinks Vala isn’t paying attention. His eyebrows will draw higher upon his face, his eyes growing large and wistful as his lips curl into an uneven smirk, and it must  _ surely  _ be some ancient glamour at work because the man manages to make himself look  _ soft _ . It has Vala’s skin crawling every single time, and it isn’t because the Ascian has found yet another tactic to set him on edge—it unnerves because it is an expression that is wholly  _ genuine _ .

Genuine, and yet distant. There is a shadow over that otherwise moonstruck gaze, as if the man does not yet see what stands before him. As if lost in thought, or memories. Emet-Selch gazes toward him and then through him, but not  _ at  _ him. Which is fair, honestly; Vala is under no delusions about what he looks like. ...But that would also make sense, wouldn’t it? Saving Y’shtola from her most recent foolhardy jump into the Lifestream has made one thing clear: Emet-Selch can see souls as easily as a man sees stars on a pitch night. Better than, even.

...Ah. Another reason why Vala's blood runs cold…

_ “Ahem.” _ Vala’s attention snaps back to the man at the platform’s edge and finds that off-putting smile gone. It’s been replaced with something haughty, lips pulled into a tight line as yellow eyes assess him toe to tip. “Do not mistake this as personal interest, but you’ve the complexion of a bad meringue. Perfectly fit to collapse.” 

Vala glares and it speaks enough. The Ascian shrugs with his drink in one hand, a tired lord amongst ungrateful peasantry.

“What? After coming to know you as the ever-present thorn in our side, having you perish dashing your skull against a set of tavern stairs would be...” He trails off, chuckling. “Look, I’d laugh at first, but it would only be an insult to my fallen brethren should their  _ slayer  _ meet such an ill-fitting end.” 

Vala does not move. 

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and groans the same way Sidurgu does when told he needs to tolerate a Moogle. “If you aren’t going to sleep, do have the self-preservation to pout at me from over here. We are  _ friends  _ for the moment, aren’t we? Come now,” he beckons, patting the stool next to him as his voice turns saccharine and sing-songy, “lay down your arms. Have a seat! I won’t bite if  _ you _ don't~.” 

It’s the exact sort of flirtatious lilt he’d used during their rescue of Y’shtola and it does not compel the warrior to come any closer.  _ ‘You  _ ** _do _ ** _ know how to whistle, don’t you, hero,’ _ Emet-Selch had teased, his gloved fingers slowly caressing the skin of Vala’s palm as he passed over his lamp.  _ ‘Just put your lips together and  _ ** _blow_ ** _ .’ _ It was uncalled for, bafflingly out of left-field, and that hasn’t changed now. Urianger, logical as ever, would say he’s only trying to get under Vala’s skin. That responding to his games would be the same as letting him win and it would ultimately be better for everyone’s health to simply not play.

...unfortunately, Vala considers himself to be reasonable, not logical, and he has plenty reason wipe that sickening grin off Emet-Selch’s face.

If being irritating is his game, then Emet-Selch is trying to annoy the warrior into leaving him be. Vala continues up the stairwell instead, toward the Ascian’s table purely out of spite. He does not sit once there, but it would be rude to ignore  _ every  _ instruction, would it not? He was specifically told to lay down his arms, after all, so Vala lifts his grimoire from his belt and allows it to slip from his fingers, dropping it onto the table’s surface with a heavy bang. 

The table shakes. Vala stares down at Emet-Selch, and Emet-Selch looks thoroughly unimpressed.

_ “Must _ you?”

“People are dead.”

“Yes! Your kind are known for that.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

The Ascian’s cheery air dissipates into a heavy sigh, his mood blessedly no longer at odds with the solemn cloud hanging over the rest of the Crystarium. He grips the edge of the table with one hand, stilling its rattling, and sets down his drink with the other. “Say what you mean, hero. You wish to know if I had any hand in this night and I will tell you that I did not.”

Vala is many unfortunate things, but he isn't stupid enough to listen to that. Emet-Selch subsists on half-truths and dancing around questions until the person asking is too dizzy to realize they’d never been answered.  _ ‘Can’t con a conman,’ _ they’d say in the Brume and Vala does not particularly feel like being conned right now.

“You tell me a lot of things.” He tries again. “Did you know. That this. Was going. To happen?" Each word is deliberate, clear despite the otherwise constant quiet of the warrior's oft unheard voice, the question repeated like the rhythmic recitation of a scathing poem. "The truth, if you would.” 

"I have told you the truth," the Ascian insists, glowering.

"No. You said you had no hand in it. I asked if you  _ knew _ ."

Emet-Selch tilts his head down to the surface of the table, the hand that stilled it moving to rest on the dropped grimoire. A part of him bristles at his things being touched, but Vala lets it go, waiting. 

"...Did I not say I much prefer your brooding silence over your inane attempts at needling me?” When the Ascian speaks it is a rumble, deep and agitated, as if there existed something that could possibly be more infuriating than the Bringer of Chaos himself. His face is dark, his eyes the warning gold of a poisonous serpent's, and Vala briefly wonders if he should savor or  _ dread  _ the open display of displeasure. “It was my intention to be civil. But very well. I shall humor you.

“Did I know an attack would happen  _ tonight _ ? Even if I had, you hardly would have believed me were I to warn you. You and yours have made it abundantly clear you trust not one ilk of what I say regardless of my every effort to change that—up to and including saving your dear friend’s life, I might add. Why would I waste my valuable time pleading to willfully deaf ears?" He slumps forward into his seat, fingers drumming atop the book in steady staccato as his eyes follow its inlaid design. A golden sun with an emerald eye. “Did I know an attack would happen at all...? Undoubtedly. Vauthry is not one for idle threats, and I do believe he warned you of impending consequences. Only the naive would assume slow justice from a man with everything to lose.”

...Vala hates that he can't find the lie in that.

If it  _ is _ a half-truth then the part he is hiding must truly be ludicrous because, regardless of current opinion of the Ascian, nothing in his testimony rings false. Vala’s anger deflates, leaving only the bone-deep ache of a man with no answers he likes and no choices that matter. 

It pains to admit, but he had thought the same as Emet-Selch every time Vauthry or his mystifyingly persistent henchman would dole out another warning: that those idle threats were not so idle after all. That they meant every word, because their very way of life was on the line. It was the same as Garlemald, as Ishgard, Doma, and Ala Mhigo. No enemy Vala has ever crossed had ever been bluffing...and no amount of victories he held over his head would stop the bullet once his actions pulled the trigger.

_ ‘Woe betide those who stand with the Weapon of Light _ ,’ sings his hollowed heart, and he knows it sings true. It happens every time. He proves himself a threat and others die in his place.

_ ...if I saw the pattern, why did  _ ** _I _ ** _ not speak? _

Emet-Selch languidly turns his gaze from the book to Vala’s face as though he knows his thoughts, and Vala feels those serpentine eyes sliding a knife through every notch of his spine on their way up. They glint with the slow curling of his lips and he leans onto the table, casually resting on his elbows with his forearms crossing overtop the grimoire’s cover, trapping it between his arms and chest.

He smiles, all malicious intent and teeth. Though his hands are in plain sight, there is enough tension in the air that he may as well be cocking back the hammer of a pistol. And as Vala watches him roll his tongue along a sharp cuspid in preparation to speak, he reluctantly notes to himself that the answer to his previous internal question was “dread”. He should dread, not savor, Emet-Selch's ire.

“But what of you, hero? I had always seen you as being unrelentingly pigheaded, but never naive. Did  _ you  _ not see this coming?”

_ Bang _ . Solus zos Galvus has survived yet another round of Garlean Roulette and now gleefully watches as his idiotic enemy splatters his brains on the wall  _ for _ him.

Vala's heart drops. He knows he could deny it.  _ Of course I’m naive—what other sort plays hero for as long as I have? _ Could think of something to dismiss the absurd allegation hidden as an innocent question.  _ Of course the thought never crossed my mind—I’m not an Ascian who thinks about attacking innocent people. _ Could play dumb, not that that one currently feels like a stretch. He could leave; if Emet-Selch thought to trap Vala by taking his weapon, he was deeply underestimating the warrior’s attachment to gil. He could leave without it, buy another one. His mind summons excuses and escapes in the same way he summons his spells, but none of them are answers.

They both know what it really is anyway, and Vala’s hesitation is blood in the water. 

“...oh, you  _ did _ .” Emet-Selch theatrically presses a hand to his chest, his face a mockery of sympathy while he leans his weight on Vala’s book. His every word is light and honeyed and gentle, and Vala feels them dancing along his skin like knives waiting to taste blood. “And yet you said nothing either? Are you to tell me the blood you insinuated to stain my hands was the same adorning yours? You, the vaunted hero of  _ two _ realms? Who holds the benefit of every doubt? The  _ only _ soul amongst the two of us who would have his warning heard?  _ Oh, _ my  _ dearest  _ Warrior of Light…" He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Shakes his head. Tsk, tsk. "People are  _ dead!” _

The blades plunge in, guilt bleeding throughout his chest and Vala shuts his eyes to the incoming onslaught of shite he does not want to hear. Not from _ Emet-Selch. _

Not that it stops him.

“Hah. What cold comfort to know my previous assessment was proven correct: you are not naive. You are  _ defeated _ .” The Ascian’s voice drops as suddenly as a winter chill. It is low, condescending, and disappointed. A playwright chastising the failing lead who dared to spit in the face of his good will. “...Will you claim otherwise? Lie to an immortal? You may vilify me all you wish if that is your comfort, but I know your wicked secret.” There is the sound of wood creaking against itself, the rustling of heavy fabric. Vala can picture the man leaning back onto his stool, one leg crossed over the other and eyes as piercing as a gold-tipped dagger. “You said nothing because you did not see the point, did you? You have resigned yourself to the fact that your every attempt to prevent tragedy will inevitably be met with failure. With  _ death _ . And not your own, oh no— _ you _ are far too important to your darling Mother for Her to ever allow you enjoy Death's loving kiss... _ But no one else is, are they? _ " _ _

Don't look at him. Do not respond. That is winning to him. Do not play. Untrimmed nails dig into the flesh of Vala's palms and it is nothing compared to the stabbing ache within his breast. His eyes stay closed. He breathes. Imagines a kinder smile and soft, blue eyes. Yet that horrid voice continues to carry through the pain of regret and then has the indecency to feign  _ care _ .

"...I have seen  _ countless  _ heroes burn themselves to ash within their own blazing righteousness, but even I fain shed a tear for those who merely burn  _ out _ . You are adrift, dear boy. Drowning within the currents of fate and given up all hope of ever regaining control.”

"..."

He sighs, sullen, as if he has the right. As if he  _ is  _ right. “Tis a pity. I had hoped Hydaelyn’s great champion to be something more than a beaten-down mammet—”

Vala knees the underside of the table. It jolts, then tilts, and Emet-Selch’s drink falls into his lap. The shrill gasp that spills from his lips as cold liquid seeps through his clothing and purple stains the whites of his robes is a sound sweeter than any Starlight Choir has ever produced. Vala opens his eyes in time to watch the Ascian spring backwards and off his stool, knocking it to the floor with a clatter. He looks from the ruined fabric to the man responsible, and the dry irritation simmering underneath all Emet-Selch’s dramatics is a cherry on the sweet pie of shutting him up. Vala could  _ sing,  _ it is so beautiful.

Glynard shouts from the bar, asking if everything is alright. Vala gives him a nod and that seems to satisfy the bartender despite the mess and racket. He shrugs and briefly casts his eye to the man who  _ isn't  _ the Exarch's friend, but doesn’t ask again.

Emet-Selch, meanwhile, huffs and pouts. “I am  _ demanded  _ for candor and  _ this  _ is the thanks my candor receives... How mature of you, hero.” He lifts a hand and snaps his fingers, and while the stain and spilt drink disappear his annoyance does not. “How  _ very  _ mature.”

"What can I say?" Any victory this night, however small, is a blessing and Vala allows himself to bask in it. He smiles brighter than he’s managed in too long, unabashedly pleased with himself as he pulls his freed book from the table and flips through its pages. He’s met with scrawled notes, runes, and glyphs, but happily no stains. “You inspire me, Emet.”

"Fray" was right about something. Not taking it feels good.

...Vala waits for the inevitable biting retort, for the riposte, but it doesn’t come. There is no movement from the corner of his eye, and he could very easily assume the Ascian stormed off and left Vala to foot his bill in a fit of pique. But Emet-Selch hasn’t left. He can still feel his presence. Can hear him breathing for the sake of his host body. When the silence he celebrated as divine edges its way into being uncomfortable, Vala finally replaces his weapon onto his belt and looks up.

And his smile wilts into confusion.

Emet-Selch is pale, even more so than usual. His mouth is barely agape and his brow is furrowed in frozen mid-gasp. He is staring through him,  _ into  _ him, but there is no uneven smile as there was in Rak’tika. There is no wistfulness. There is only horrified shock as his eyes wander up and down Vala’s person, as if…

As if he is  _ searching  _ for something. 

_ “What did you—...”  _

The moment is but a candle's flame all too quickly snuffed out. Emet-Selch swallows down his half-hissed question and that is the end of it. “Never mind,” he then says with an eerie calm, waving off any potential questions before bending down to right his fallen seat. "Your point, ineloquently made as it was, is taken. You’ll have to forgive my churlishness; intellectual discourse is something of an old world pleasure, you see, and I ever find myself nostalgic for a good debate. I assure you, tis nothing personal."

… _ ’nothing personal,’ _ he says. As if he hadn’t targeted every weakness he could find within the span of seconds because Vala had the gall to seek honesty from a known liar. Yet thousands of years of existence must make for an incredible actor, because he almost makes it sound  _ believable _ . Where once his tone was ice is now warmed over, and every stray crease along his face that betrayed disdain and frustration has smoothed into nothing. Despite knowing it to be a lie, despite being told over and over by Emet-Selch himself that he despises inane arguments, his excuse...does not sound like one. He sounds genuine.  _ Friendly _ , even.

The switch is so jarring and unfathomable that it's somehow worse than the dressing down. Every one of Vala’s muscles tense in preparation to flee for the Exarch.

Obviously said tensing is visible, because the Ascian rolls his eyes. It’s _ playful _ . “Don’t give me that face. Must you force me to say the words?” His voice turns mocking, but not cruel. It’s the same as Krille and Alisaie poking fun at Alphinaud, all made in good jest, and Vala’s stomach twists into bewildered knots. “ _ I apologize _ , hero. I have overstepped your boundaries, insulted you, and I am  _ sorry _ . It will not be spoken of again. See? Amends made. We start anew.” He smiles and it is  _ that  _ smile, that moonstruck, awed smile with the gaze that never seems to land on anything but whatever it is only Emet-Selch can see. Aether. Souls.  _ Not Vala. _ The knots twist tighter. “Now will you stop standing there and let bygones be bygones? To be frank, your refusal to sit is giving the impression of a date gone horribly wrong and it is beginning to  _ embarrass _ me. So if you would…?”

Vala does not. Cannot. Can only stare and search for clues that might lead to an explanation, at a loss for what to do otherwise. There's something foreign in Emet-Selch's eyes, a spark not there before that does not belong. This is… what  _ is  _ this? 

The easiest answer is the logical one: having remembered his vow of cooperation, the Ascian realized the thin line he was walking with Vala's good faith and reeled himself back to something he imagined to be pleasant. This act would only last until  _ whatever  _ determining factor Emet-Selch considered to be a breach in his one-sided agreement and then the sugar would wash off the stick. The End. Curtain call. Simple as that.

...but that brief lapse in the moment of his surprise...that was not an act. It couldn't be, no matter how long the Ascian has gone wearing the mask of humanity. He was thrown off by either something Vala said or did, and his desperation as he tried to visually sift through Vala's soul...

Emet-Selch taps one finger upon the table in a pointed rhythm, eyebrow raised, waiting with limited patience as Vala silently tries to piece together the reason behind the man’s sudden... _ this _ .

_ Think _ . He was looking for something in Vala's soul. A horrifying prospect, usually, but the Light's corruption must hide any irregularities, because Emet-Selch either does not see them or does not care. He wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut for this long if he did. ...no, he's focused on something  _ else _ . He spoke of different colors, when pulling Y'shtola from the Lifestream. He spoke of  _ sensing _ the Lifestream, during a time he was supposedly resting in the shade and not awake. That sort of unconscious awareness would speak of an affinity, or at least a sensitivity, with the flow of aether and…

And nothing. That means nothing. So he is sensitive to souls. He can see their colors and remembers them with enough clarity and mind-boggling specificity to see Y'shtola's amongst the stream when he'd only before seen her from the shadows. That says nothing about why he keeps staring at  _ Vala's  _ with such badly hidden want. What in Halone's halls would the Lifestream have to do with—

Oh.

_ Oh... _

_ ‘The world was divided across ten and three reflections, sundering the land and all who dwelled upon it,'  _ he’d said, and Vala half-listened because Emet-Selch is a man who only wants to hear himself talk.  _ 'Now do you see why we yearn for the Great Rejoining? For our world. For our people.' _

_ ‘My condolences, by the way. Tis never easy to lose the ones we love,’ _ he’d said, and Vala had taken it as mocking because who was this monster to speak of loss after all he’d caused?

The stares. The smiles. The single-minded focus on his old world, his people, and  _ remembering _ . The unconscious vigil over the Lifestream and the myriad of colors that flow within, the memorization of souls to be reborn anew. The way he refuses to look at Vala himself, like the warrior is but the unpleasant container he has to put up with, an overactive, plan-ruining shell hiding his  _ actual _ object of interest. 

The new glint in his eyes that is not, in retrospect, foreign in and of itself. It is only foreign in that it’s coming from a man he has prepared himself to eventually kill.

**Hope** .

Vala sits, but not due to newfound respect or sympathy. Personal loss doesn’t make the man responsible for countless deaths, imperial rule, and the subjugation of millions any more innocent than Yotsuyu’s past had made her. He’s committed atrocities regardless of the motive behind them, and Vala has stopped being a forgiving man.

He has not, however, ceased to be curious. And it’s with vile interest that he watches his enemy brighten at the supposed compliance, knowing that he is reminded of—or hoping Vala  _ to be— _ someone else.

"And with that behind us,” the Ascian starts, flourishing with a dramatic roll of the wrist as if they’ll never have problems again, “I suppose I should impart a bit of knowledge. 'Emet-Selch' is not a  _ name _ for you to split when you can't be bothered to spit out three measly syllables. It is a  _ title _ , and I feel it would do well for our budding respect towards one another if you would be so kind as to say the whole thing."

_ ‘A title,’ _ is it…?  _ 'Respect?’ _ "And you would finally refer to me as something other than 'hero'? Or is the lack of identity another 'old world pleasure'?"

Emet-Selch has already reigned in his demeanor, too aware now to once again be taken by surprise, but that question too causes a glimpse of something deeper, a little tell buried within that far-away stare. He pauses before he closes his eyes and chuckles, conceding the point with such quiet nostalgia that Vala isn't sure if the point was even his. "Yes, I suppose it is."

The rest of the night strangely goes without incident. Vala finally orders a drink, though alcohol is no longer on his mind in the presence of a villain. Emet reorders what was evidently purple carrot juice, and Vala makes sure to let Glynard know he has no intention of paying the other man’s tab despite the mock hurt thrown his way for it. Vala listens to Emet ramble about past accomplishments (“Tis a bit funny, you being a summoner. Ancient Allagan magicks… Garlemald was not the  _ only  _ empire I had a hand in building, I’ll have you know, and  _ you  _ mastering the art of  _ my  _ creation is a bit like designing a thorn 5000 years ago just for you to stick it in my side now.”) with the morbid fascination of a man watching a coeurl sink into quicksand.

Sleep is elusive as ever and death still vividly haunts every human soul inside the Crystarium, but, with this current distraction, Vala is willing to let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, you aren't seeing things. I rewrote a huge part of this chapter because pacing issues and fitting it better into chapter 2. I am much happier with it now, and hopefully y'all are too! Peace.


End file.
